


spare me your dreams (recently mine have been tearing my seams)

by ephemeraltea (temporarily_obsessed)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst War 2014, M/M, Medication, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporarily_obsessed/pseuds/ephemeraltea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the angst war on tumblr. Prompt: (from rahndom) Ooh you wanna fight, don’t you? *grins* then prompt: Jay has been skipping his meds, so he has a violent panic attack. Just when he and Tim were alone. What has he done?</p>
            </blockquote>





	spare me your dreams (recently mine have been tearing my seams)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rahn (Rahndom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/gifts).



It isn’t so bad, at first. The mild guilt of flushing the small blue pills is tucked into the recesses of his mind without too much trouble- there’s always something to distract him.

However, within the first week, he finds himself staring at a file picture of blood splatter and unable to move (stupid, really, he’s seen that kind of thing all the time it shouldn’t bother him _and it doesn’t but he still can’t turn away_ ).  The joints in his wrists and thumbs feel achey, like they’re swollen, but whenever he looks- well, they never are.

Jason tells himself not to think about it, goes on with his life.

He’s more irritable, but- that could be for any number of reasons. If he’s a little more angry, well, patrol helps keep that from being too explosive during the rest of his day.

And besides- in moments, he feels so much better, so much more _alive_. He’s not so tired and groggy and drifting, anymore, like the medication always made him. He’s not to cripplingly worn-out all the time. And he- he wants, now, more. Things like food, and sex, both of which the pills curbed his appetite for some. He can give Tim more attention.

For those things, Jason will pay the price of insomnia clinging for a few hours every night, the swells of guilt when he remembers the people that have died, but he got to come back. The hours where his skin feels to sensitive, where the mildest brush burns across his skins like claws. He’ll be fine. He just needs to wait this out. He’s _better_.

Until the small hours of one morning, where he wakes up with a scream clinging to the insides of his throat, the sheets sticking to his thighs like a poisonous vice, and a violent swash of images and sounds beating into his senses ruthlessly. The scream, still stuck in his body, blocks the air he’s trying to suck in- Jason’s head rolls and twists and _tell me what hurts more, forehand or backhand—_

“Jason-“

He feels somebody, something move beside him. He lashes out, grabbing and throwing the person-thing as far as he can. He goes after it-

“ _Jay_ \- Jay, _what-_ “ The voice sounds raspier, winded.

_Tell me what hurts more—_

He punches, grapples, feels the grazing of blows but throws the enemy again, hears it hit the walls with harsh _whump-crack_. A sharp cry.

Jason blinks. He feels- awful. Worn out, and like he’s been running. When realizes his eyes are in focus, he looks down. He’s sitting on the ground, leaning against their bed, facing the wall. He looks up.

Tim is collapsed against the wall. He’s wilted, unconscious, bruises swollen on his face and arms, and a mostly-dried trickle of blood from his nose outlines his loosened mouth. His eyelashes, not as thick as Jason’s but longer, cast faint lavender shadows across his face.

Jason stops breathing.

_What have I done what did I do Tim what did I do fuck no no no_

He doesn’t remember moving, but suddenly he’s next to his boyfriend, feeling for a pulse and _where is it where is it fuck Tim no-_

_-there, oh my fuck, thank you._ He lets himself slump in relief for a bare moment before checking to make sure Tim’s airways are clear; he gets up from the ground on shaking legs and grabs his phone from the bedside.

“Bruce,” he says in a tight voice, a voice that hurts as he speaks.

_What have I done.  
_


End file.
